


A Liberal Man

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Pride and Prejudice
Genre: Canon - Book, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-07
Updated: 2009-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well known fact that on his quitting Derbyshire he had left many debts behind him, which Mr Darcy afterwards discharged. -- <i>Pride and Prejudice</i>, Ch 44</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Liberal Man

**Author's Note:**

> "A Liberal Man" was originally written and posted at a now-defunct site for Christmas of 2006. It seemed appropriate to repost it for this Christmas.

Mr Mortimer was finally able to see Mr Darcy about the shop.  He shuffled in after a particularly haughty servant, nerves and shame eroding whatever confidence he might have possessed, and mumbled his plea.

Then he looked at the master, whom for the last six weeks he had only thought of as _the master_, and stared for one incredulous moment.  He had forgotten that even that young scoundrel Wickham was older than Mr Darcy.  This, this pale, serious child of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two, how would he understand what had brought Mortimer here, practically on his knees?

“I am sorry,” Mr Darcy said perfunctorily.  What little hope Mr Mortimer had left faded.  Something in the older man’s face, however, must have affected him, for he put himself out to explain.  “What I do for you, I must do for everyone else, and I cannot afford to be paid only when it is convenient for my debtors.”

Desperately, Mr Mortimer said, “Your father, sir, he was never too particular -- ”

“I am very sorry,” Mr Darcy told him, directly.

_It isn’t fair_, Mr Mortimer thought, filled with bitterness, that his life’s work, everything he owned, should be destroyed by the conceit of two utterly different young men, the one in vice and the other in virtue identical in their self-absorbed indifference to how their actions affected others.  

His own childish voice echoed through the years to him, _it isn’t fair, Mama, it isn’t fair_, and his mother said in her practical way, _Who told you it was?_  

Mr Mortimer met Mr Darcy’s cold, intense eyes, clear of the slightest trace of remorse.  

_But he wasn’t fair, none of this would ever have happened if he had been.  He’d never have let those Wickhams, especially that hussy Mrs Wickham, get so high above themselves, he’d have kept them in their places.  He brought Mr George up like he was to be a proper gentleman and now he can’t be bothered with respectable work.  That fine education spoilt him worse than anything could.  **That** wasn’t fair._

“Thank you, sir,” he mumbled, turning away.  “Maybe Mr Wickham will come back and -- ”

“Mr Wickham?”  Mr Darcy’s voice sharpened.  Despite the slight boyish build, he had a powerful voice.  Perhaps he’d grow into it someday.  “What has he to do with your troubles?”

Mr Mortimer looked into the young man’s face, and found something - not understanding, but at least closer akin to it.  He said quietly, “He owes debts to every tradesman round about here, I expect; I remembered him, he was such a nice boy, I didn’t think twice about extending him credit.  And now he’s gone, and there’s no getting the money back.”

Mr Darcy’s lips thinned.  Oh, he was the Lady Anne’s son, through and through-- she’d looked like that, years and years ago now, when one of the little chimney-boys was nearly killed by his master.  For a moment, both were silent; then the master said, “This is not only you?  There are others?”

“Harry Howard-- Jack Smith -- Arthur Derrick-- probably others.  Oh, and Mrs Williams.  She’s the worst off, but she’s not renting anything, it’s all hers.”

“I’m very sorry,” Mr Darcy said again, this time a clear dismissal.  The brief flicker of hope died.    
When Mr Mortimer glanced back at the master, he was leaning his chin on his folded hands, staring into the distance.

#

On Christmas, Mr Mortimer slowly walked into his shop.  He had poured everything into Mortimer’s, abjuring wife, children, anything else.  It had been his life, and it had been a happy one.  It was not as grand as some of the other shops, but it was prosperous and comfortable, and he had always been well-liked.  He was grateful, then, that he had no family to suffer with him.  He had sent money to his mother for years, but she was dead.now.

His bones ached as he moved; it was cold, and he wasn’t young any more.  Some children laughed and sang outside, and one tall, snow-covered figure detached itself from the others and came through the door; he shot a dour gaze in its direction.  

And stumbled when he met young Mr Darcy’s tranquil gaze.  

“I would like ten ribbons,” he said casually, as if the other conversation had never taken place.  Mr Mortimer stared.  “Three in white, five blue, and two black, for my sister.”

“I -- we don’t have black ones,” he stammered.  “All sold out.”

“A pity,” Mr Darcy remarked.  “When I asked the other shopkeepers, they all assured me you had the best supply of ribbons for fifteen miles.”

Mr Mortimer blushed.  “A--all of the ri-ribbons are in that, that corner, sir.”  Mr Darcy no longer seemed the slim, pale boy he had been in his father’s study; once distanced from the grandeur of his home, his was an overwhelming and not entirely agreeable force of personality.  Mr Mortimer really believed that a single other occupant would have overcrowded his large and comfortable store.  

When he stammeringly told him the price, Mr Darcy set down a few notes-- Mr Mortimer looked down and nearly fainted on the spot.  Set between them were one--two--four--_seven_ notes.  

“I, I think you must have made a mistake, sir,” he quavered.

“I do not make mistakes,” Mr Darcy replied.  “I hope this will be sufficient.”

“I . . . I . . .”  Mr Mortimer could only gape.  “Sir, you can’t . . .”

“My father would have been perfectly willing to pay for the consequences of his error.  Since he is not here, I must do so in his stead.  You would not, I am sure, prevent me from performing my duty?”

“N-no, but I . . .”  Mr Mortimer swallowed.  “Thank you, sir.  I shan’t forget it.”

“I do expect your rent to be paid promptly.”

“I . . . I shouldn’t have any difficulty.”

A slow half-smile lit up the young man’s thin face.  “I am glad to hear it.  Merry Christmas, Mr Mortimer.”

Mortimer reached out and clutched the notes with shaking hands.  “Merry Christmas, Mr Darcy.”


End file.
